


No Enemy But Winter

by rubygirl29



Series: Love Knows No Season, No Clime [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Homeless Bucky Barnes, M/M, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: "You know there is a homeless guy in the alley next to this hellhole you insist on living in," Tony comes through Steve's open door, stripping off his gloves and looking generally dissatisfied with life."There are a lot of homeless people, Tony, even in Manhattan.""This one has a suspiciously nice blanket and his hands are wrapped around a Stark Industries thermos - the one I give my employees. He's probably drinking that gourmet coffee I also give my employees. I don't suppose you know anything about that?"





	No Enemy But Winter

**Author's Note:**

> I started this during the last round of the Polar Vortex, and even though it's March, where I am, It's too darn cold! So, I wanted Bucky to be warm and happy. 
> 
> The only warning is for some explicit language and m/m consensual sex.

"You know there is a homeless guy in the alley next to this hellhole you insist on living in," Tony comes through Steve's open door, stripping off his gloves and looking generally dissatisfied with life. 

"There are a lot of homeless people, Tony, even in Manhattan."

"This one has a suspiciously nice blanket and his hands are wrapped around a Stark Industries thermos - the one I give my employees. He's probably drinking that gourmet coffee I also give my employees. I don't suppose you know anything about that?"

Steve sighs. "Soup, Tony. I gave him soup and a blanket. It's brutal out there."

"You have a perfectly lovely apartment waiting for you in Stark Tower. One without vagrants on the doorstep."

Steve really doesn't want to engage Tony in this conversation. He has reasons for living in Brooklyn. "I like it here."

Tony looks around Steve's loft. "It lacks a certain _je ne sais quoi?_ Ambience, security, more furniture?"

"It's home." It's true. He has a big, comfortable couch, a 60" HDTV, three armchairs, and a coffee table accessible to the furnishings. He has a wall of bookshelves, a basic kitchen, and two bedrooms and a bathroom behind a nearly ceiling-high partition. He still has enough room for an exercise area with a weight bench and an elliptical trainer. What more could a guy want?

Apparently, if you're Tony Stark, you want to have your friends where you can keep your eye on them. If Steve liked Manhattan, he might not object, but he prefers Brooklyn where he was born and raised. 

"You're the head of my PR Department. What if I need you at midnight to send out a press release or something?"

"I have a phone, a laptop, and ultra-high speed internet. You can call me anytime and I'd have the word out in ten minutes -- the same as I would if I lived in the tower." It's not a new argument. Steve barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

"I won't give up on this," Tony challenges. "Anytime you get tired of feeding stray cats, let me know."

"He's not a 'stray cat', Tony. He's a human being."

Tony's expression softens. "If he need a place to go, St. Vincent's shelter, which I subsidize by the way, has space available. At least tell him about it. You'll never forgive yourself if he freezes to death on your doorstep."

"I'll tell him."

"You'd better. There a cold front coming through and if you think it's cold now, wait until sub-zero hits." He takes out his phone. "Hap, I'm ready." He gives Steve a look. "There is a staff meeting Thursday - no face-timing or Skype-ing. I want you there in person."

"Yes, sir." Steve snaps a salute as only a former military officer can. Tony is brash and annoying, but he's also a genius and a generous boss. "I'll be there." He still watches Tony as he goes outside and says something to the guy in the alley. He probably also gives him money, because Tony is one of those people who truly believe that throwing money at a problem will make it go away. 

When Tony's limo is out of sight, Steve puts on his coat and goes outside. The air isn't particularly cold if you have proper outerwear, but if the weather forecast is right, it will be downright dangerous for anybody to be outside. 

He peers into the alley. There is a dumpster between the buildings and Steve thinks he sees the sole of a boot sticking out from behind it. "Hey," he calls quietly. "If you give me the thermos, I'll refill it with more soup, or coffee, if you'd rather have that."

The boot shifts and the homeless man steps out into the alley. "Coffee sounds great." His voice is low and with a bit of gravel to it. He walks toward Steve, coming into the afternoon light. "Tell your friend I don't need his charity." He holds out the wad of cash Tony had given him. As usual, Tony's gone over the top. "Somebody'd just steal it from me. And I've got enough problems without getting my ribs stove in or a concussion."

Steve notices the absence of a left arm for the first time. "You military?" he asks.

"I was. Sergeant James Barnes, Rangers." He sounds reluctant, like his service was a weight on his shoulders. 

Steve nods. "Me, too. Special Forces. Captain Steve Rogers.." 

Barnes appraises him with cool gray eyes. "Looks like you're doing okay."

"I am now. Not so much when I first got back. How long has it been for you?"

"'Bout a year. Spent a few months at Walter Reed and when they couldn't do more for me, I came back to Brooklyn. Which didn't work out so hot, as you can see. Who'd a thought old Brooklyn would get so upscale?"

Steve laughs softly. "Yeah, kind of a surprise to me, too." The wind comes up and Steve can feel the chill through his jacket. "How about you come inside for that coffee?"

Barnes shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

Steve looks up at the sliver of sky overhead. "There's a cold front coming through tonight. It won't be safe for you out here. Did my friend tell you about St. Vincent's shelter?"

"Yeah."

"You'll go there?"

Barnes draws a breath. "I'm not good with crowded rooms."

"You can't stay out here. You'll freeze to death. I'm not exaggerating."

"The last time I went to a shelter I ended up with a knife in my hand and a brain that still thought I was in Afghanistan. They won't take me in and I won't risk it."

Steve knows all about flashbacks and nightmares. He's been out longer than Barnes, got the right kind of help, and he still struggles on some days with lingering PTSD. "I get it. But I can't let you freeze out here. Please. I've got a whole floor to myself, a spare bedroom, and plenty of heat. And I won't sleep if I know you're out here dying."

"Cap, you're exaggerating. I'll be okay."

Steve suddenly understands Tony's exasperation with his own stubborn attitude. But he also knows that Barnes will die out here if he doesn't find someplace warm to sleep. "You won't. They're talking wind chills of minus twenty-five to thirty. If you don't die, you'll get frostbite and lose another limb." A bit of anger bleeds into his concern.

"Wow, you don't pull your punches, Cap." For the first time, Steve sees doubt and worry in Barnes' eyes. 

"It's the truth. You were a Ranger, you know the extremes. And you don't have the kit you did in the army."

"True." Barnes' eyes narrow. "Okay, I'll come up. Just be aware that I could kill you with a toothpick."

"It's a good thing I don't have any on hand then." Steve grins, relieved. "And I doubt you could take me down. Green Beret, remember?"

Barnes laughs softly. "Army Ranger, Cap." But he lets Steve take the thermos from his grip so he can hold on to the blanket. "Thanks. Not many people would take the chance." He retrieves a backpack from behind the dumpster and trudges after Steve. 

Steve opens the door to his loft and Barnes stops just inside the door. He looks back at Steve. "This is all yours?"

"Don't be impressed. My friends think I live in a hovel."

"You need more realistic friends."

"Tell me about it." Steve motions him inside. "You seem to be realistic." 

Barnes nods, a faint hint of a blush along his cheekbones. "Thanks. Mind if I clean up?"

Steve gestures to the wall. "The bathroom is behind there. There's plenty of hot water and towels are under the sink." He doesn't want to ask if Barnes needs clean clothing. He'll wait and see. He doesn't want to humiliate the guy with rude assumptions about the homeless. "If you need anything else, just holler. I'll just heat up some dinner."

"Thanks." He pauses and looks at Steve beneath lowered lashes. "You know, you didn't have to do this. I mean you're taking a risk you shouldn't."

"I thought we had covered the whole toothpick thing already?" Steve doesn't know why he has a lump in his throat. "Besides, if I don't help a fellow veteran, I'd be ashamed of myself." 

"Most people call me Bucky."

"Okay." Steve tilts his head curiously. "Where did that come from?"

"My mother's maiden name was Buchanan. My sister picked up on it and started calling me Bucky because I hated Jimmy, and my dad's name was James. It got confusing."

"It makes sense, I guess. I was an only child, so no competition. I was the one and only Steve."

Bucky smiles slightly and heads towards the bathroom. A few minutes later Steve hears the shower running. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

This whole situation seems a little surreal to Bucky. What kind of person invites a homeless man into his house, treats him like a human being, and offers him shelter for the night? He's either a saint or a threat, and Bucky doesn't get either of those vibes off Rogers. His blue eyes are guileless, his concern seems genuine. It would have been enough that he gave Bucky a very nice blanket and a thermos of soup. That was more kindness than anybody has shown him since he's been on the streets.

He's been beaten up, kicked, told to move out of a sheltered space, and even escorted out of a shelter by the cops when he had one of his episodes. He's pretty much run the gamut of human behavior. When you were homeless, most people pretended you were invisible. A few told him to get off drugs and get a job because he was a disgrace. He wondered how many of them were the hypocrites who praised the uniform he once wore and cared nothing for the shattered man beneath his worn fatigue jacket. 

And, no. He wasn't on drugs, he wasn't a drunk, but he'd be the last person to deny that he had problems, physically and mentally. He remembers what it felt like to be warm and clean, and not feeling like his stomach was bumping against his spine with hunger. Sometimes, it seems like a dream.

He strips off his clothes and steps underneath the steaming spray. It's almost sinful how good it feels on his skin and hair. He feels the pulse of heat in his shoulder easing away the pain. Rogers' soap and shampoo are fresh and herbal. Bucky takes an obscene amount of time in the shower, but when he's done, his skin is scrubbed pink, he's used a disposable razor he had in his pack to shave his week's growth of beard, and his hair is neatly tied back. He had used the laundry at the shelter a week ago, so he has clean clothes; faded jeans, a dark blue thermal henley, and a gray hoodie. He feels human again, fit company, even if the low-level buzz of uncertainty is still vibrating under his skin. 

He takes a few deep breaths and goes out into the main living space. Steve is in the kitchen. He looks up. "Umm, I'm no gourmet cook. I hope spaghetti with meat sauce is okay?"

Bucky raises a brow. "You think I'm gonna turn up my nose at a meal? I've been in the army and on the streets. Spaghetti sounds great." 

"You want a beer? I mean if you do that sort of thing?"

"I'm not on meds and I don't have a drinking problem if that's what you're asking." 

Steve blushes. "Ah, I was trying for subtle."

"You don't have to be afraid you're going to hurt my feelings or set me off on a crazy bender. I'm okay most of the time." 

Steve puts a frosty bottle in front of him. "Good to know." He opens the two bottles. "So, here's to being warm."

"I can drink to that," Bucky smiles slightly. "You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did." Steve says firmly. "Brothers in arms. And if it helps at all, after I came back, I had a few crazy benders of my own."

Bucky raises a skeptical brow, but doesn't think he should say anything, because Steve looks so damn normal, with a real job and a real roof over his head. Crazy benders sure as hell weren't on his plate. 

He keeps silent while Steve dishes out the pasta and shaves parmesan cheese over the top. Bucky, who thinks his last real meal was at least two days ago, is ravenous. He could inhale the whole plate in one go, like they do in cartoons, but he forces himself to eat at a more sedate pace. It's almost amusing that Steve has retained his eating habits from his army days, eating quickly but neatly. It's not too hard for Bucky to match the pace. 

It's the most at ease he's felt in a long time. He finishes his beer and wipes his mouth. "Thanks for this. But you don't have to put me up. I can find a shelter."

"Why leave now? It's below zero, you'd be in danger of frostbite by walking out the door. Just stay, okay? Leave in the morning if you need to, but I want you to be safe."

"Why? You don't know me. I could steal your stuff and sneak out in the middle of the night."

Steve laughs. "The fact that you told me that means you wouldn't do it."

Bucky shrugs. "Maybe I won't, but if you keep playin' good Samaritan, somebody will take advantage of you sooner or later."

"Wow, you have a high opinion of my ability to judge character."

Bucky feels himself blushing. "I didn't mean --"

"I know. Would you like more spaghetti?"

"I ate Mount Everest, so no thank you. It was really good, though."

"Thanks." Steve gets up to take the plates, but Bucky stops him with a quick, "Uh, no. Cook sits, guest does the dishes." 

"My mom would have never stood for that," Steve objects.

"Neither would mine, but that's the rules while I'm here. Even if it's just one night. I owe you."

Steve has the good grace not to argue and Bucky manages to clean up without a disaster. When he's finished, Steve is sitting at his desk, working on his laptop. The Rangers are playing the Red Wings on TV, and Bucky sits on the couch, feigning interest in the game. False interest can only last so long, and he falls asleep so soundly that he doesn't even feel Steve cover him with a blanket and slip a pillow beneath his head. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Somehow, one night turns into two as the arctic cold continues, then three. Steve is adamant that Bucky stay, particularly when he wakes with with a cough and the sniffles. Bucky insists it's nothing and he doesn't need Steve to play nursemaid. 

"I'm not," Steve argues, "but if you think I'm going to turn you out in this weather when you're clearly ill, you don't know me very well."

"I've known you for three days!" Bucky retorts and then proceeds to sound like he's coughing up a lung. 

"Three days, three weeks … it doesn't matter. Don't argue."

"Don't you have to go to work?"

"I can work from home."

"You can, but should you?" Bucky asks and Steve feels a stab of guilt. 

"To be honest, I ought to go in. There's a staff meeting."

"Then go! I'll be fine."

"You have to promise that you'll be here when I get back."

Bucky sighs. "You're not my keeper."

"I'm not, but if you insist on going out in this weather, I'm going to seriously doubt your sanity."

Bucky slumps down. He looks ill and pale. Steve goes to his medicine cabinet and gets out a bottle of ibuprofen. He fills a glass with water. "Here, take two of these. I'll stop at the drugstore and get cough medicine."

"You don't have to."

"I know." Steve winks at him and Bucky wonders what the hell was that about? He sighs and lies down, starting to feel sleepy and dull. He shouldn't feel as safe as he does in this place. If he was in a shelter, he'd be wedged into a corner, his back to the wall and tense as a coiled spring. Instead, he falls asleep.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve nearly freezes in the five minutes it takes him to get into his car and start the heater. It's not one of Tony's BMWs or Range Rovers, but it's a sturdy American-made SUV with all the amenities, including heated seats, a hot beverage holder, and its own hotspot, because Tony insisted he be available 24/7. Traffic is lighter than normal. Schools have been closed for the day, most companies encouraged their workers to stay home and telecommute, but Tony knows Steve is made of sterner stuff, so he drives into the garage at Stark Tower with plenty of time to run to the in-house pharmacy, pick up cold and cough medicine, and make it to the meeting on time.

Tony gives him a sharp look. "How's the Winter Soldier?" he asks, pretending that he really doesn't care.

"He has a cold."

"Did he go to St. Vincent's?"

"No. He's sleeping on my couch." Steve waits for the reaction. It takes a minute, as if Tony can't quite process that Steve actually let a homeless, ill and possibly crazy person into his apartment and survived to tell about it.

"Rogers, are you sure you're not the one that's delirious?" Tony reaches a hand to touch Steve's forehead and Steve ducks, leaving Tony's hand dangling mid-air until he pulls it back and sticks it in his pocket.

"Tony, I'm fine. He's fine. And if you think he's a danger, remember what I used to be before I worked for you."

"Fine, Captain America. I'm just sayin'."

"He only has one arm. I think I can take care of myself."

"I can have JARVIS monitor your apartment."

It sounds casual, but Steve knows Tony well enough to take it as a given. "No."

"But -"

"No. There's a reason I moved to Brooklyn. I don't want or need supervision by JARVIS or anybody else. I know you mean well, but no."

"Three no's. That's unnecessarily emphatic. I would have stopped at one."

The door to the conference room opens and Maria Hill and Natasha enter, followed by Phil Coulson, Tony's legal counsel, his footsteps dogged by Stark's security specialist Clint Barton. "Heya, Steve." Clint grins at him. He has a bandaid across the bridge of his nose.

"What happened to you?" Steve asks.

Clint shrugs. "Bed-Stuy, what can I say? You should see the other guys." Clint, like Steve, lives off-site in a building he owns along with Phil. Coulson looks like a paperclip is the most dangerous weapon he can wield, but Steve has seen him sparring. Maria is head of HR, Natasha in charge of something she doesn't talk about, but Steve hazards a guess that it has something to do with computer security.

Coffee arrives, and a tray of assorted pastries, then they get down to business and after three hours of intense brainstorming about Tony's latest project, he closes his laptop. "Go forth, my children, and do your jobs. Steve, make me look like a fucking genius with a heart of gold. I know, I know — it's a challenge."

It really isn't. Tony _is_ a genius with a heart of gold, and his latest project, funding research into advanced prosthetics, and working alongside the best minds in the field of biotechnology is frankly amazing. If anybody can make a difference, it's Tony. Steve just has to impress people and make Tony's role seem less than it probably will be in the future. Money aside, Tony is a tinkerer at heart and when you combine that ability with a big brain and an even bigger fortune, amazing things happen. Somedays, his job is too easy.

The others file out, but Tony says, "Steve, a minute."

"The answer is still no, Tony."

"Your one-armed friend —"

"He's not my friend." There is a qualifying, "yet" in there somewhere.

"Whatever. Your house guest, then. Tell him I might have a job for him."

"What?"

"You did take notes, right? On that advanced prosthetics project? I need people for a research study."

"You are not experimenting on him," Steve actually growls at his employer.

Stark rolls his eyes. "Not that kind of experiment. Just — I need to make some scans of how his body works, how he moves without his arm. I want my prosthetics to be as lifelike as possible. I just want to put together a model of how a body works. I'm not asking him to volunteer. I'll pay him well."

Steve is still dubious. "I can only ask him, but I'm not pressuring him into doing something just because he thinks he owes me. Clear?"

"As a bell. Now, get out of here before the thermometer dives another 10 degrees." He dismisses Steve with a wave of his hand. 

Typical Tony. Steve gathers up his tablet and his papers, stuffs them in his briefcase, and heads down to the heated garage. For a moment, he almost, _almost_ thinks about moving into the tower. Traffic changes his mind. Brooklyn has enough traffic of its own, but Steve has been navigating its streets most of his life and the familiarity takes some of the pressure off. He calls his favorite deli to order chicken soup. He doesn't know if Bucky will be up to eating anything more substantial, but who doesn't want chicken soup when they have a cold?

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Are you trying to bribe me?" Bucky asks once he's vertical and awake. Steve is standing in front of him holding a mug of steaming soup that smells heavenly and probably tastes even better.

"Bribe you? To do what? Take your meds and keep warm?"

Bucky eyes him. "Go to the Veterans Center? Talk to a therapist? Get out of your hair?"

"Maybe the first two, but you're welcome to stay as long as the weather is dangerous - which according to reports will be at least another week. Maybe I just don't want you to die." He puts the mug down on the coffee table. "Have some. You won't regret it, I promise."

Bucky sighs. He's getting to know Rogers well enough to realize that he's stubborn as a brick wall and running at it will only give him a headache. He picks up the mug and sips. Steve is watching him. "It's good," he admits. "Don't be so smug."

"Me?" Steve looks wounded.

"You're a terrible actor."

"I work for the biggest Drama Queen in New York. Some of it is bound to rub off on me." 

Bucky snorts, then coughs. His chest hurts and the thought of being out in the cold holds no charms. "I can't pay you until the beginning of the month when I get my check."

"Have I asked for rent?"

"No … but I can't stay here eating your food and taking up space. If you need money, you could get a roommate who has a job and won't wake you up at 3am with a screaming nightmare."

"You haven't done either of those. And you really have no idea how much Tony pays me. It's ridiculous."

Bucky gnaws at his lip. Steve looks so earnest, so serious. "I don't understand."

"I work for the craziest, most demanding man in New York. I'm on call 24/7. I have friends, but I have to schedule time to see them, and most of them work for Tony, too." He sits across from Bucky, his fingers loosely linked.

"I'm sleeping on your couch."

"I have a spare bedroom."

"I eat a lot."

Steve gives him a sidelong look. "It doesn't look like you've eaten a lot in quite a while."

Bucky slumps against the back of the sofa. "I'm not gonna win this one, am I?"

"Nope," Steve says, smiling. "More soup?" 

Bucky, to his embarrassment, falls asleep shortly after finishing his second helping of soup. He wakes to Steve sitting in the recliner, feet up, reading. "Work stuff?" he asks, forcing his body upright. 

"No. For once, I'm reading for pleasure."

Bucky tilts his head and looks at the title. _The Last Lion_ is pleasure reading?"

"I majored in Military History," Steve says as if that explains everything. "What do you like to read?"

"I haven't read much since the army. Maybe science fiction? Anything escapist, I guess."

Steve just makes a non-committal sound and rights the recliner. "Tea?"

"Something that won't keep me awake?"

Steve laughs at that, "Buddy, right now you could drink a gallon of coffee and it wouldn't keep you awake."

Bucky blushes at Steve's perceptive comment. "Yeah, I guess you're right." 

Steve rattles around in the kitchen and reappears a few minutes later with two mugs of tea. Bucky peers into the pale gold, fragrant liquid. "What is it?"

"Vanilla Honeybush. It's relaxing."

Bucky sips and smiles. "I like it."

Steve goes back to reading and Bucky decides to take a shower after he finishes the tea. It's a luxury to be able to have hot water and soap every day. Even if he goes back on the streets tomorrow, he'll have the memory of hot soup, sweet tea, and what it feels like to be human again.

He risks looking in the mirror. Without the dark stubble, he looks younger, less hard. His face is still gaunt, but the flush on his cheeks comes from hot water, not fever. He touches his palm to his ribcage. The bones are slightly less prominent than they had been a week ago. He doesn't look like a walking disaster, but his brain is still wrecked and his lack of an arm with the scars of wounds and surgeries will never be normal. He shakes off those ghosts and gets dressed in a borrowed pair of Steve's freshly laundered sleep pants and a Dodger sweatshirt. He promises himself to do laundry tomorrow. Meanwhile, Steve's oversized clothes are warm and soft.

He returns to the living room. Steve is deep in his book. The reading light casts shadows across his face, gilding his cheekbones and the tips of his long eyelashes. Bucky shifts from foot to foot. "Okay, I'll take that spare room for now," he says, not looking at Steve directly. 

Steve's smile is like the sun. "Great! The sheets are clean and I'll get you an extra blanket. You can put your things in the dresser. It's empty." 

"Expecting company?"

"My friend Sam stays over when he's in town, but he doesn't travel much during the winter. He lives in D.C." 

"Your family?"

Steve shakes his head. "I don't have one. Only child. Parents deceased. No cousins that I know of." Bucky wonders if he should say something, but Steve continues, "My dad died when I was less than a year old. My mom passed right before I was deployed. She lived to see me graduate from West Point, though, so at least we had that. She was sick for a long time." He takes a breath. "You?"

"Two sisters. One's in Paris, the other travels around a lot. She's a writer, so she doesn't really have a home base. My folks were killed in a car accident ten years ago, when Rose was twenty and Becca eighteen. Becca went off to college and I joined the military."

"Do they know about you?"

Bucky stills. "What?"

"About your arm?"

"Yeah, of course. They were both in Europe at the time and came to see me in the hospital." He swallows, "It was … awkward. Ten years is a long time and we've all changed. Grown apart. We sort of keep in touch. Email, mostly." He doesn't mean it to sound so pathetic, but it does. Steve looks sad, and Bucky wishes he had made up some fairy tale, instead. Steve would have figured out it was a lie before the words were out of his mouth given Bucky's homeless situation.

Sure enough, Steve asks, "Why are you on the streets?"

Bucky gives Steve a hard look "I hate to tell you this, Sunshine, but not everybody can be as lucky as you." The look on Steve's face is like a punch to Bucky's gut, and he immediately wishes he could erase the last five minutes. "God, I'm sorry. It's my damn lack of filters."

"No. You're right. I have been lucky, at least luckier than most vets. My friend Sam is a counselor at a veterans center in D.C. I needed help when I got back, like we all do. He gave it to me and more. He introduced me to Tony, and for some reason, we got along. It was a matter of right place, right time." 

Bucky laughs, but there is no humor in it. "I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time more than I can count." He sounds weary to the bone. "I'm going to bed before I say anything unforgivably stupid."

Steve says softly, "Goodnight, Buck."

"'Night, Steve." Bucky doesn't know what else to say, so he flees like a damn coward. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve is still cursing himself for being insensitive, even though Bucky hadn't seemed to take it that way, when his phone vibrates. "Tony, it's late."

"Is it?"

"It's nearly midnight."

"The night is young, Steve-o. How's that draft for my speech to the DoD coming along?"

"I just have a few more statistics to add, but you never stick to what I write."

"So, I'm an off-the-cuff kind of guy. I still like to have a professional backing me."

"Right. I'll have it to you by 11am tomorrow."

"Remind me to give you a raise."

"Thanks, Tony."

"Make it shiny," Tony says and hangs up.

Steve cleans up the living room and puts the dishes in the dishwasher. He goes to his bookshelf and pulls out a few of his classic science fiction novels. He's not up on current trends, but he's read Bradbury and Asimov, Ursula LeGuin. He wonders if Bucky's read them all, but he puts them aside on the coffee table. 

Bucky's door is open slightly and Steve looks in. Bucky has the blankets pulled up to his chin and his dark hair falls across his face like a glossy curtain. His breathing is light and even. Steve hopes he has a good sleep. 

Steve is a habitually light sleeper due to his childhood of asthma and irregular heartbeats. Some nights, he'd lie awake just listening to be sure it would continue. He's only half-dozing when a shout wakes him. He grabs his Glock from the gun safe under the bed. Opens his door silently and sees a dark shape silhouetted against the window. He turns on the light and shakily lowers the gun. "Bucky?"

His eyes are nearly black, the irises thin blue rims. He's sweating and when he sees Steve, he drops to the floor, "Don't sh-shoot! Don't shoot! I won't run, I promise, don't hurt him!" 

Steve sets the gun down carefully and takes a step towards Bucky, his arms held wide. "Easy, soldier. I'm not your enemy and I won't hurt anybody, okay?" 

Bucky's huddled into himself, his hand over his head. He's squeezed his eyes shut and he's shaking with sobs and chills. Steve lowers himself to the floor. "Hey, Buck. You're in Brooklyn, you're safe. I know you don't know me real well, but I'd never hurt you." He gently pries Bucky's hand open and holds on tight. "You're safe. You're in my apartment in Brooklyn. It's all right. You don't have to be afraid. I won't leave you alone." He continues stroking Bucky's back in slow circles until his shoulders stop heaving and his sobs slow to hiccoughs. 

"C'mon, let's get you back to bed." It's not easy to do, but Bucky manages to get his feet under himself as Steve lifts. He stands there wavering. Steve realizes Bucky probably won't make it down the hall to the guest room, and he's still shivering. Steve guides him to his own room and Bucky sits, his head bowed. 

"Sorry," he rasps. 

"For what?" Steve lifts Bucky's legs, so he can't help but lie back. "For having a nightmare?"

"Woke you up."

"Tomorrow's Saturday. Not a work day, not even for Tony. We can both sleep in."

Bucky, still not clearly aware of his surroundings, nods. "Sounds good." He's exhausted, and his eyes close as his breathing evens out. Steve pulls up the blankets. He'd sleep on the couch, but he'd rather be close in case Bucky has another nightmare. He turns the dimmer down to low, then goes to the kitchen to make a mug of herbal tea. When he's finished, he's warm and relaxed. 

He goes back to his bedroom. Bucky is curled up as close to the edge of the bed as he can get. It's a king mattress, so there's plenty of room for Steve. He slides into bed, pulls up the covers and falls asleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Bucky wakes up slowly. He feels warm, relaxed and not in pain. It's so rare that he revels in it briefly until he becomes aware that he is not alone in the bed. He sits bolt upright, ready to run if he has to, then he remembers. Brooklyn, the panic attack, Steve holding him and repeating that he won't leave Bucky alone. Bucky turns his head to his left.

Steve had claimed he was a light sleeper. Bucky gets out of bed slowly, not wanted to wake him. Who knows how long he had kept watch? The room is chilly and Bucky tucks the blanket around Steve's shoulders. He doesn't seem like a light sleeper now. 

Maybe it's the daylight leaking in through the edges of the shades that makes some part of him aware that the dreams of the night fade into the day as the light strengthens. It makes Bucky feel safe. He goes into the living room and turns up the thermostat to a more bearable setting. Steve has a metabolism like a furnace, and Bucky always feels like a block of ice. He starts the kettle on the stove and when it's boiling, he makes a cup of tea for himself, then brews a cup of coffee for Steve. 

Steve emerges from the bedroom, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "You made coffee," he says. 

"Uh, yeah. I've got to do something to pay for the lavish lifestyle you've provided."

Steve nearly snort his coffee. "You're a jerk, Barnes."

"Yer a punk."

Steve bursts into laughter. "That's the worst you can come up with?"

"Nah, but since I'm being on good behavior, I'll leave it at that. I- umm, last night …" He can't meet Steve's eyes. "Sorry about that."

Steve sets his coffee down and looks at him with those sad blue eyes. "We all have nightmares, Buck. I guess it comes with the territory. It would be worse if we didn't have them, because that would make us less than human."

Bucky sighs. "Okay, Mr. Brightside."

Steve shrugs. "Got it from my mom. Even at her lowest, she could smile about something."

That makes Bucky unaccountably angry. "She'd never been to war, then. Never had men die on her watch, never killed anybody."

"She had cancer. Three times. Breast, ovaries, finally her lungs. She fought harder than any soldier to stay alive, but in the end, she couldn't fight it anymore. But she died with a smile on her lips."

Bucky is silent for a long time. "I'll leave this afternoon. I don't belong here." 

Steve wants to argue, but he can't. He can't hold Bucky here against his will. "Promise me you'll go to St. Vincent's, or at least someplace where you won't freeze to death."

Bucky nods. "I'll take a shower and then I'll be gone."

"I'll pack up some things for you." 

"You don't have to do any more than you've already done."

Steve feels helpless as Bucky disappears down the hall. A few minutes later, he hears the shower running. His phone vibrates in his pocket. Tony. 

"Steve Rogers," he answers dully.

"No shit Sherlock. I had that figured out when I called your number. What's up, Buttercup? You sound as gloomy as the day outside."

"I haven't finished the proposal yet," Steve says, "I promise you'll have it later today."

"Did you talk to your houseguest about the prosthetic project?"

Steve closes his eyes. He'd forgotten about that in the aftermath of Bucky's nightmare and the argument they had today. "Tony --" 

"You didn't, did you? Listen, Rogers, I don't want to have to scour the streets for a willing participant. I don't have that kind of time. Talk to him."

"He's leaving today."

"Steve, talk to him!" Tony hangs up with an air of finality that screams of the old-fashioned slam of a receiver on the cradle of a phone. Steve's head throbs. He sits on the couch and rubs his temples. 

"I didn't give you that headache, did I?"

Steve looks up. Bucky is toweling his hair dry. He's dressed in a thermal henley, a flannel shirt and a hoodie over those layers. His jeans are clean, but worn thin. Not the best cold-weather gear. "No. Just my boss."

"Sounds like you have work to do." Bucky shoves his arm into his jacket. He can't zip it up properly, and is too proud to ask for help, Steve realizes.

He can't issue orders to Barnes. He's an adult. "Stay, please," he asks finally. 

"I don't think that's a good idea. I've already cost you a night's sleep."

Steve takes a deep breath. "My boss, Tony Stark --"

Bucky raises a brow. "Stark, the weapons guy?"

"He doesn't do that anymore. He's more into alternative energy and biotechnology. He's developing advanced prosthetics for veterans and others who need them."

"Well, that's just peachy. Good luck with that." Bucky reaches down for his backpack. "What does that have to do with me -- aside from the obvious?"

"Look, if he weren't my boss I'd never ask, but I have a favor?"

Bucky pauses. "I'm not a guinea pig. I've been down that road, and prosthetics don't work for me. Too much damage, and I hate the hook things they offer at the VA."

"You wouldn't be a guinea pig The project isn't that advanced yet. Tony needs somebody who could model some motion scans for him. He needs to construct a model of how a body works. He's got plenty of able volunteers, but he needs somebody who can be template for people who have lost limbs in wars or accidents. He'll pay you."

"That's what he's giving you grief about?"

"In order to get this program off the ground, yes."

"Okay, I owe you for putting me up. At least I'll be able to pay now. Where do I go and who do I talk to?"

"Umm, me?"

Bucky laughs softly, "You sure about that?"

"I'll call Tony and see when he's available." He types out a text. "Meanwhile, take your coat off and stay a while." 

Bucky sighs. "Do you always get your way?"

"More like does Tony always gets his way. I'm just his lackey."

Bucky shrugs out of his jacket, much to Steve's relief. "I'm sorry about earlier. The dreams, they put me in a bad place. It spills over."

Steve nods. "It still happens to me occasionally."

"What do you do about it?"

"Call Sam. He's very good. He used to be a pararescue pilot and medic. He knows what it's like."

Bucky nods. Those guys had saved him. They have his respect. "Do you think he'd talk to me?"

Steve smiles. "He will if I ask him real nice."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "You are a punk."

Steve shrugs. "You called it, not me. How about some lunch?"

"Is it warm enough to venture out?"

Steve looks at his phone. "If you're up to walking two blocks, I know a great diner. And I have a parka I can loan you that will be warmer than that field jacket."

Bucky hates feeling dependent on anybody, but Steve makes it sound easy. Almost like they were friends. Which they aren't. Not on any level. But he'd be a fool to turn down the offer. He wants to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air, so he accepts the offer. It's a very nice parka, and besides the zipper, it also closes with velcro, the best invention in the world.

Even with the parka, Bucky's skin is stinging with the cold by the time they get to the diner. Steve pushes the door open and a gust of heat and amazing aromas wafts into the tiny entrance. Bucky looks around with wide eyes as he follows Steve into the restaurant proper and over to a booth with a hand-lettered "reserved" sign. "It's reserved."

"Yeah."

"Reserved for you?"

Steve smiles. "Rosa's family has a history of military service so she sets this table aside for ex-military."

"Okay." He slides into the booth with his left side to the wall. "Tell me more."

"Rosa is Hungarian. She's eighty if she's a day, but she makes the best paprikas I've ever had. The Goulash is great, too."

A young, round-faced waitress comes to their table. "Rosa said you should get the paprikas today." She's blushing furiously at Steve. "And the apple pastry for dessert with vanilla ice cream." 

"I'm not arguing with Rosa. We'll take two. That okay with you, Buck?"

"Yeah." He hides behind the curtain of his hair. It's also okay if Steve calls him Buck. "Thanks. I'll pay you back later."

"You already got Tony off my back. That's thanks enough."

It doesn't seem enough to Bucky, but their food arrives before he can say anything. He looks down at the bowl of sauce and spaetzle and meat. The aroma is heady and the steam is warm. He could inhale this stuff, but he waits for Steve and paces himself. It gives him reason enough to watch Steve surreptitiously between bites. 

This is Steve, relaxed and comfortable in an environment outside his home. His body is relaxed, his brow, which usually is tensed in a frown, is smooth. He's completely, utterly gorgeous, and looking at him is like looking at a fine painting or sculpture; perfect and unattainable by mere mortals like himself. 

"Have I got sauce on my face?" Steve asks when he catches Bucky off-guard. 

Bucky blushes. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. And you don't have sauce on your face."

Steve laughs. "Well, that's good to know. Usually I end up with splotches on my tie at formal dinners. Tony says he can't take me anywhere."

"That's not very kind."

Steve's grin widens. "Tony is actually very kind. He just doesn't want anybody to know that. He hides it behind sarcasm and snark. Do you think I'd be working for him if he was a real jackass?"

"I guess not, but then I don't know him."

"The trick to dealing with Tony is to be direct, don't lie, and talk to him like a human being instead of one of this century's greatest geniuses."

"Easy for you," Bucky sighs. 

"Stop denigrating yourself." Irritation edges Steve's voice, which Bucky finds amusing. 

"My self-image has taken a beating for the last ten years or so."

"I've been where you are, full of self-doubt and guilt. Angry with the world and at myself."

"I don't believe you," Bucky says, flatly. "Look at you. Handsome, smart, successful."

"Remind me to show you something when we get back home." He waves the waitress over. "Do you want dessert to go?"

Bucky smiles. "Is that even a question?"

Steve orders the pastry, but declines the ice cream since he has some at home. The brown bag the waitress brings if redolent of cinnamon and apples, and Bucky finds himself inhaling the aroma despite himself. Steve just grins at him. 

"What?" Bucky tries to look menacing. 

"Nothing … just you looking like you want to climb in the bag with the pastries."

That's not what Bucky wants to climb into right now. He's thinking more along the lines of bed and with Steve. Apparently being warm and well fed takes away his inhibitions. Too bad it will never happen. 

Outside, the weather is still painfully cold. Bucky increases his pace to match Steve's, but his heel slips on a patch of black ice and his balance, precarious since losing his arm, fails. He feels himself falling and grabs on to the nearest solid object, which happens to be Steve's arm. Suddenly, Steve's arms are around him, holding him upright and steady as if he was half his weight. It's the closest he's been to another person since he was in the hospital, and it's totally different than their professional touch. He can feel the warmth of Steve's body through his coat and he wants to burrow into that solid chest and never move away. 

"Are you all right?"

Bucky nods, his face still smushed into Steve's jacket. "Yeah." He slowly, reluctantly pulls away. "Thanks."

"No problem." To Bucky's amazement, Steve keeps an arm wrapped around his waist as they walk the few hundred feet to his apartment. Bucky isn't about to question why, or shrug him off. If Steve wants to keep him close, for whatever reason, Bucky isn't about to argue. 

He regrets the loss of Steve's warmth when they get inside the vestibule and Steve has to dig his key out of his pocket and let them into the building. 

He must look bereft, because Steve frowns at him. "What's wrong?"

Bucky decides to be honest since any other answer he could think of would be a lie, and he knows Steve has a sensitive bullshit detector. "It was nice walking with you. And thank you for saving my ass."

Steve laughs. "It was my pleasure."

Bucky doesn't pursue it, afraid to hear the answer if he does. "And you kept your grip on the pastries. You're a superhero."

"Tea or coffee with those?"

"Tea." 

"Good choice." Steve smiles over his shoulder as he puts the pastries on plates. He heats them in the microwave to take the chill off and tops them with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream. Bucky is full, but he can't resist the warmth of the tea and the spices of the pastry. When Steve asks him if he likes it, all Bucky can do is nod. He probably looks like a squirrel storing nuts in his cheeks. 

Steve doesn't look much different, blue eyes sparkling. Bucky recovers his dignity. "My God, that's the best thing I've ever eaten."

"I know, right?" Steve sighs and leans back, his arm outstretched along the back of the couch. Bucky, daring, relaxes cautiously, not leaning in too close, but testing himself and Steve. Steve doesn't fail. He gently moves his arm to Bucky's shoulder. Bucky decides to up his game. He leans closer, aware that his vulnerable side and missing arm are tucked close to Steve.

He looks up at Steve through his lashes. Steve is watching him. He looks gently amused, but his eyes are soft and dark with something that Bucky hasn't seen in a very long time. He tilts his head, and Steve closes the gap between their lips, brushing lightly against Bucky's. 

"Are you sure about this?" he whispers.

"Stop talking," Bucky's voice is shaky and hoarse, but he wants … oh, how he wants. And Steve gives him everything he needs in that kiss. 

When Steve draws back, his teeth dragging lightly over Bucky's lips, Bucky can't suppress the small whimper of loss that escapes. When his brain comes back online, he moves away from Steve, not meeting his eyes. When he senses Steve leaning towards him, he says roughly. "Don't."

After a silence, Steve apologizes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

Buck gives a weak laugh, "Not sorry that you did, but maybe I shouldn't have let you." 

"Why?"

Bucky gets up, moving away from Steve's sphere of influence, which he clearly can't resist. "Because you're you, and I'm nothing."

"I'll bet you've got a stash of medals that say something different."

Bucky's eyes narrow. "You looked at my service records."

"No. I didn't, but Tony did. He's …"

"Too damn nosy."

"I was going to say protective. He emailed them to me."

"All you had to do was ask me!" He feels his chest tighten in panic. There were things in his record nobody should see. Bucky stands and goes to get his coat. "I'll pay you for my upkeep when I get my check. Meanwhile, don't bother trying to find me."

"Wait!" Steve is across the room in two long strides. "I'm sorry Tony pried, but I'm not sorry I read your records. None of it was medical or confidential. It was stuff I could have found on my own, but I didn't look for it. I just saw the medals. Three Purple Hearts, a Silver Star, a Ranger Medal of Honor. Jesus, Bucky, that's serious shit."

"Yeah, and all it cost me was a pound or two of literal flesh."

"Don't bullshit me. I was in battle. I know what it takes to get those medals. I know how much it costs to kill and I know how much goddamn guilt you carry around every single day, so don't tell me it's nothing!" 

Steve, in all of his righteous anger is a sight to see. Bucky grabs him by the shirt front and pulls him into a savage kiss. "Shut up!" he rasps his lips still brushing Steve's. He's afraid if Steve starts speaking again, he will lose every last bit of courage he has. 

"Yeah?" Steve scoops him up in a fucking bridal carry.

"I ain't no bride and I'm sure as hell I ain't no virgin." Bucky is laughing, because, hell, nobody ever prepared him to be literally swept off his feet. 

"Never said you were," Steve leaves a love bite on Bucky's neck and he thinks he'll just die here because all his bones have melted. 

"Put me down. I can walk and you'll hurt something vital." Bucky's growl is more sex than anger. "I want to be able to fuck you senseless and not from pain."

"Promises, promises."

It's all too much. They're on the bed before Bucky can even marshall the breath to argue. He lies there, aching and waiting as Steve strips down. His body is long and warm and gold, honed like a Greek statue. Bucky can't stop looking at him.

"One of us has too many clothes on, and it isn't me," Steve laughs, but gently. "C'mon, Buck. Let me see you."

Bucky thinks about his scars, his stump. There's nothing admirable about his body, but there's nothing shameful, either. He sits up, takes off his boots and socks, then hesitates at his shirt. 

"I've seen amputations before," Steve says softly. "It doesn't matter. You're beautiful in my eyes." What can Bucky do but pull his shirt off, then the rest of his clothes. "Jesus, Bucky," is all Steve says before he lies down beside him, on his right side, where Bucky can twine his fingers through Steve's, and feel the heat of him all along his body. 

They kiss softly, then with increasing passion. Bucky pushes Steve to his back and lays his body over Steve's smooth, flushed skin. "You're a miracle," he whispers, his hand roving over Steve's muscles and bones, feeling every part of him like a blessing. His cock is hard and heavy; the tip already leaking semen. 

Bucky slicks his fingers with it, then moves to take Steve into his mouth. He likes the weight of him on his tongue, the taste of him, the way he can feel Steve's breath quicken as Bucky works his cock. Right now, he'd give just about anything for two functioning arms. 

Steve's strong arm wraps around him, supporting him, pulling him up, kissing his own taste from Bucky's mouth. "I've got you." His voice is shaking, but his arm is rock steady. His breath is hot against Bucky's collarbone. "What do you want?"

Bucky isn't used to being asked about what he wants. He looks down at Steve. "I want to fuck you," he gasps. 

Steve's eyes widen. "I'd like that. We can do that. Trust me?"

"I'm not in a position to say no," Bucky laughs, and when Steve looks vaguely alarmed he turns serious. "Yes, I trust you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Steve kisses him. "Don't move."

He reaches across Bucky to his nightstand and comes up with lube and a condom. He looks down at Bucky, his expression suddenly tender. "Let me do this for you."

Bucky nods even as his breath catches in his throat. Steve opens the lube and slicks his fingers and Bucky's cock. "Stevie …" he gasps. 

"Shh, shhh. Not long now." He rolls the condom on Bucky's shaft. "I'm gonna put you on your back, okay?"

Right now, if Steve had said he was going to throw him off the balcony, Bucky would have agreed. He surrenders to Steve's strength. Steve is above him, his fingers slick with lube. He reaches behind himself to his hole and starts working to open the right of muscle. Bucky finds the lube. "Babe, I'm not letting you have all the fun." He squeezes lube on his fingers and slides his index finger alongside Steve's. They work the muscle together, and Bucky has never seen anything as hot as Steve looks right now, his eyes nearly black with arousal. Bucky has never felt anything as erotic as he and Steve opening him up. 

"Now!" Steve gasps. And Bucky wants to laugh at the wonder of it as Steve slides over his cock, surrounding Bucky with heat and slick. He sinks down to the root, then raises up. Bucky gasps. "Don't slow down. I can take it, Stevie, any way you want to."

Steve rides him hard, and Bucky clutches his arm. Steve suddenly cries out and Bucky can feel his muscles clenching with his orgasm. He thrusts down once, twice, then Bucky follows Steve's orgasm with his own, as Steve's pants against his chest. 

It's wonderful. It's glorious. It's impossible. Bucky strokes Steve's back and sighs when his soft cock slides out of Steve's body. Steve rolls to his side and removes the condom, tying it off and dropping in in the bedside wastebasket. He looks down at Bucky and brushes a strand of Bucky's hair from his forehead. "Are you all right?" he asks.

Bucky smiles. "Better than. You?"

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Definitely. We need to clean up or we'll stick to the sheets." He stands and holds his hand out to Bucky. "Shower's big enough for two."

Buck hesitates. Seeing someone in the flush of arousal and dim light is different than being on display in the bright, unforgiving light of a bathroom. He doesn't want to say that to Steve. He shakes his head. "If I get in that shower with you, it really won't be big enough. 

Bucky is positive Steve can see his every insecurity as plain as day. "Buck, we've just had sex. We're both naked. I think we can shower together." He holds out his hand. "C'mon. I hate to waste water."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "That's your reason?"

Steve gives him a crooked smile. "I could say that I can't get enough of looking at you naked." 

Bucky's knees are weak. "That's my excuse." He follows Steve into the bathroom, as they wait for the water to warm, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, surrounding him with heat. Stepping into Steve's steam shower is like being surrounded by clouds. Everything is a little blurred, a little dream-like. Steve holds him gently, washes his body with soap that smells like mint and coconut, shampoos his hair. 

"God. Buck … you're so beautiful." He kisses him and while Bucky sits on the wooden shower bench, washes himself quickly. "Stay warm. I'll get clothes."

He wraps Bucky in a huge fluffy towel and returns a minute later with sleep pants and t-shirts. They're warm and soft, and smell like Steve's soap. The pants are too long, and the shirt is ridiculous, but he doesn't mind. He feels cherished. He doesn't know how how long he'll have this. Steve won't want him around forever, not with his nightmares and PTSD and physical issues. If his own family couldn't deal with it, then he can't expect it of Steve. Bucky will take what he can get; if it's a few nights with Steve, he'll savor every minute. 

Steve is sitting on the couch, his arm extended along the back in open invitation. Bucky slides in, his stump against Steve's warm solidity. Like this, the void of flesh filled, he can almost forget his arm isn't there. Steve kisses his hair. "Stay as long as you want. Not just through the winter."

"Are you lonely?" 

Steve, to Bucky's surprise, laughs. "Not particularly. But my life revolves around work and Tony, and the staff at the office. They're great, and we hang out once in a while, but most of them have their own lives outside of the office. Even Tony."

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. I'm not here to fill any vacuum in your life out of convenience."

Steve has the grace to blush. "You know that's not it."

"I know the sex was great. I know that a guy like you could have anybody he wants. I know I owe you big time, because you did save me from freezing to death. I don't know why you want me here."

"Look at me," Steve lifts Bucky's chin. "I won't lie. Having somebody here means a lot to me. I don't have a family. I had the army. I had my company. But after three tours, I broke down. I caught pneumonia complicated by some sort of fungal contamination. I nearly died, and the army decided I was too physically compromised to return to active duty. I was a wreck. I lost more than fifty pounds. I felt empty and worthless." He digs his wallet out and holds out a picture to Bucky. 

It's recognizably Steve, but he's way too thin and his eyes have that haunted look Bucky has seen in the mirror too often. He's seen it other Vets, too. They all know the look, that hundred yard stare. Wordless, he hands the photo back. "How did you get back to being you?" Bucky's voice is tight in his throat. 

"When I was ready Sam encouraged me to get my communications degree, and Tony hired me as an intern, then full-time. That was two years ago, and every day I still wonder what makes me worthwhile."

"Because you take in broken people and make them feel like they matter?" 

"Bucky, I don't know what will happen a week, a month, six months from now, but I know that I want you to be with me and I want to be with you. That's why I want you to stay."

Bucky blinks away tears. "I want to stay. But if you get tired of my bullshit and my problems --"

"We'll deal with that as it happens, just like we've been doing. It's not like I don't have my own bullshit and problems, you know. You might want to throw me out every now and then, but I'll always come back."

"It's your place. You've got the key." Bucky tries to muster a smile. It's Steve who smiles, though, and bends his head to kiss Bucky. 

"I'll make you one," he whispers against Bucky's lips. "Then we'll be equal."

"I like the sound of that," Bucky says. "The key, and the equality."

"Deal?"

"Deal." 

Then he kisses Steve, because those lips can't be resisted. Steve covers them both with a blanket, and Bucky can't help burrowing into the warmth. "It's snowing again," Steve says.

"It's not my enemy anymore," Bucky yawns. "And if you make a Frozen joke, I might not cook breakfast tomorrow."

"Well, that would be a tragedy," Steve laughs softly and pulls the blanket further up Bucky's shoulders. Bucky doesn't object. The cold is outside, and for the first time in years, he's safe. 

**The End**


End file.
